


The Names We Give Ourselves

by Joyful_Bones



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Detective Roger Davis, cops and vagabonds, fake ah au but with detectives, shout out to my new favourite character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-27 16:18:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16705762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joyful_Bones/pseuds/Joyful_Bones
Summary: Detective Roger Davis is on the case of his greatest mystery yet: Who is the Vagabond, and where has he gone?





	1. Chapter 1

A city like Los Santos never truly slept. The sun going down was a prelude to a neon nightlife, and a different sort of crowd came alive in the dark. Some people were looking to have fun. Some of them were out to cause trouble. And for a few, the two were one and the same.

So no, a city like Los Santos didn’t sleep. But in the earlier hours of the morning, it could almost feel like it was dozing. Like the world was breathing a little slower, a little quieter, car horns and loud music replaced with the sounds of people either collapsing into bed, or just crawling out of it.

And just like the city was sleepy without sleeping, one man sat in his car and fought back a yawn. The radio was off. A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. He didn’t move to fix either of these things, just tapped his fingers along the steering wheel and stared across the street.

After a minute he reached for his phone, holding it up by his mouth as he hit record.

“5am, the two suspected members of the Fakes have finally arrived. Still no clue who the third party is, but it doesn’t look like they’re on good terms. Judging by the nose and the jacket, it’s definitely Free and Jones. Looks like they brought donuts to whatever deal is going down.”

He hesitated for a second. 

“Remember to get donuts on the way home,” he said into his phone. 

At the street corner he watched the third man decline the offering and they all straightened up, clearly getting down to business. Jones continued to stuff his face even as he argued with the man. Free began opening up the crate he’d brought with him and investigating the contents.

His car door opened, startling him. He glanced sideways as a short and disgruntled bald man slid into the passenger seat beside him, slamming the door shut as he did so. 

“And my good friend Detective Tapp has finally decided to join us!” he said into his phone, smiling at the man’s grimace. “And he’s brought a hangover with him, how nice. Detective Roger Davis appreciates him finally dragging his ass out of bed.”

Tapp snatched the phone out of his hand and hit the button to stop recording. Davis let him, no longer concerned with keeping a record now that his partner had arrived. The man’s memory was far more reliable than his own.

“Still referring to yourself in third person, I see,” grunted Tapp.

“Part of my charm,” Davis quipped back. “I got you coffee, drink up and quit bitching.”

“What’s so important that you woke me up on a Sunday?” Tapp demanded, taking a sip from the styrofoam mug and immediately pulling a face. 

Davis nodded his head in the direction of the deal. “See down there?”

Tapp squinted through the windscreen. His face went blank for a second before he sat back.

“Are they…”

“Fakes,” Davis confirmed. “I’m certain of it. I got a tip that someone was meeting them here but I wasn’t sure if it was true until I arrived.”

“Okay.” Tapp took another sip, and pulled out his phone as if bored. Davis could see him tapping away on it out of the corner of his eye but ignored his fidgeting. His attention was on the men down the street. It looked like they were arguing now.

“Who’s the other guy?” Tapp asked. “A lead?”

Davis shook his head. “No idea. Probably a nobody.”

“So why did you want me here? What are we getting out of this? You haven’t called the police on them, even though you knew where they’d be. You could have caught them red-handed.”

Davis stayed looking out the window. Tapp sighed heavily.

“You’re not still…” Davis pointedly didn’t answer. “You _are._ ”

His partner threw up his hands, almost spilling his coffee.

“Damn it, Davis, I told you to let it go! There are no leads! No place to start. You’ve been chasing your tail for way too long and you need to start focusing on real cases.”

“But where did he go?” Davis interjected fervently. His eyes glazed over, gaze turning inward as he spoke. “A few months ago the Vagabond was on every headline, and now, just, poof. Disappeared, like magic. What happened to him? We never even figured out his real name.”

“The Vagabond is dead,” Tapp said bluntly. “Some lucky bastard finally offed him, and dead men don’t make headlines unless they’re politicians or terrorists.”

“He could have been either,” Davis pointed out. “We don’t know what kind of man he was behind the mask. He could have been both, and we’d never know.”

Tapp pursed his lips. Davis looked back out the window.

“So what’s the goal, then?” Tapp asked after a moment. 

Davis squeezed the steering wheel until the leather creaked. “See what kind of deal is happening, what kind of product they’re interested in. Could come in handy later. Then, follow them when they leave. Maybe we’ll find their hideout.”

“Fine,” said Tapp. “But switch seats with me, I’ll drive.”

“I drove myself here just fine, Detective.”

“And I’m super proud of you, _Detective_ , but I’m still driving us home.”

But while Tapp started to shuffle and open his door, Davis noticed a commotion down the street. The Fakes seemed antsy, Jones looking at his phone. Something had tipped them off. He smacked Free on the shoulder and the two of them quickly got back in their car, abandoning the dealer as he spluttered.

“They’re leaving,” Davis said, dismayed as they pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tyres. Tapp paused, door half open.

“Whelp. I guess that’s it for us then.”

Davis turned the ignition and put one hand on the gear stick. The engine purred to life.

“Like hell it is,” he said firmly.

The car lunged forward, swinging the door shut and sending his partner toppling back against his seat.

“Oh shit!” Tapp cried, bracing himself against the roof and immediately scrambling for his seatbelt. “Slow down!”

Davis let out a high-pitched laugh and did the opposite. He floored it, rocketing after the car they were tailing even as it noticed them and picked up speed. The Fakes took reckless corners and tried hard to blend into the morning traffic. Davis spun the wheel hard and heard a yelp as Tapp was flung up against the door.

“Ease up!” he yelled. 

“They’re getting away!” Davis denied, and stomped on the gas. Ahead of them the Fakes’ car fishtailed slightly and the distance closed between them. A motorbike scraped by the driver’s side window and Davis swerved neatly to avoid a collision. His partner was splayed out like a cat, every limb bracing against a different part of the car as he was jostled with each sharp turn. 

A harsh sound split the quiet air, destroying what was left of the sleepy morning. Sirens. There was a police car on their tail now, blue and red lights flashing in the rear view mirror. Davis barely glanced at them before turning his attention back to his target. 

The sleek chrome car was impossible to miss. It handled better than Davis’ vehicle, but Davis handled _his_ car better than anyone else, and that made all the difference. The Fakes swerved and braked and sped, but never got any further away.

And then they blew straight through an intersection. Davis didn’t see the red light, but he heard the man next to him let out a shout.

“Look out! R-”

A screech cut him off. The detective was reaching for the gear shift long before he caught sight of the truck barreling towards them. Metal glinted. He yanked the wheel. His foot found the break.

The world spun around them like a disco ball, Davis clutching tight to the steering wheel as their car turned sideways, wheels screeching furiously over the sound of a truck horn blaring. Tapp was screaming something that fell on deaf ears. Davis felt like his own heartbeat had slowed, blocking out everything but his own breath.

They skidded through the intersection, car turning just enough to allow the truck to go tearing past them with barely a scratch off the paint. Still they spun, right around until they were facing backwards, and before they even came to a stop Davis had the car in reverse and they were moving again. He craned his neck around to look out the back window. One hand stayed on the wheel, confident as ever.

Tapp was still screaming. He continued on yelling wordlessly for a few more seconds before petering out into curses instead.

“You’re a _fucking_ maniac!” he shouted, and if he didn’t know better Davis would have thought the man was holding back laughter. 

He grinned wildly even as he drove. His steering was a little more shaky going backwards, and the police lights in his view were distracting as hell. But he could still see the glint of sunlight off that chrome finish. They were still on them. There was still a chance. They could win this!

_Win what?_

Davis hit the breaks, hard. This time it was much less graceful, the car careening to a halt. Through the rear-view mirror he saw the chrome car shoot over a set of tracks, and barely seconds later a train came barreling along them, blocking his view. By the time the train passed, the cops were on them, and the Fakes were gone.

Davis exhaled harshly. His hands flexed against the steering wheel, the exhilaration and adrenalin draining out of him all of a sudden. In the seat beside him, Tapp was panting hard. Davis couldn’t take his eyes off the rear view mirror, looking at the train tracks.

They couldn’t have made it, he told himself. That’s why he stopped. No other reason.

“What,” said Tapp, “The _fuck_ was that!”

Davis snapped out of his thoughts, snickering slightly. 

“Hardcore Mario Kart,” he joked, and got a snort in return. 

“Who the hell taught you to drive like that, because I’d like to punch them.”

“I used to have some buddies that I would race cars with. You pick up some tricks.”

Suddenly Tapp focused on him, eyes sharp. 

“Oh yeah?” he asked, oddly cautious. “How long ago was that?”

Davis opened his mouth- and then stopped. He drew a blank. It was like his memory hit a brick wall, and an uncomfortable pressure built up in his head like something was trying to fight its way out. He shook his head to get rid of the feeling, smiling sheepishly at his partner.

“Probably ages ago,” he said simply, and Tapp nodded, knowing better than to push. 

A sharp rapping on his window snapped them both to attention. There was a police officer outside of his car door, and the man did not look happy.

Davis shared a look with his partner before they both got out of the car. Tapp immediately rounded it to stand beside Davis, who fought off the warm feeling it gave him. 

“Detectives,” the officer greeted them, unimpressed.

“Dipshit,” Tapp nodded. Davis’ mouth twisted sharply in an effort not to laugh.

The officer’s face went an unflattering shade of purple.

“I should arrest you for driving like that,” he warned them. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Because, Gibson, we were working. And you’re too lazy to fill out the paperwork anyway.” Tapp waved him away, completely unconcerned by the threat. Sure enough, Gibson pursed his lips unhappily but didn’t make any moves towards them.

“Who were you chasing?” he asked finally.

“We’ll tell you when we catch them,” Davis said smoothly. Gibson scoffed.

“You couldn’t find your own dick in a dark room, Davis, I don’t hold very high hopes.”

“That’s Detective," he said. "Detective Roger Davis. To you.”

The officer took a step closer, mouth opening to say something insufferable, but Tapp spoke up before he could.

“Don’t you have authority to abuse?” he asked, sounding bored. “Can you do it somewhere else?”

“Watch it, Tapp,” snapped Gibson. “I’m being nice to you here, letting you off with a warning.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll leave the money on the dresser.”

Face pinched, the officer clearly called it quits and stalked away. The pair of them watched him get into his police car and drive off. Even the scrape of his tyres sounded pissed. 

The moment he was gone, Davis relaxed, elbowing his partner.

“You know,” he laughed, “For someone on the side of the law, you really hate cops.”

“I don’t mind Collins,” defended Tapp. “He’s a good guy.”

“Officer Collins is as nuts as you are.”

“Well not everybody is a perfectly lawful citizen, Davis, I’m sorry.”

“I like to think of myself as chaotic good,” Davis said, lifting his chin.

“Chaotic dumbass, more like it,” scoffed Tapp.

“Gibson certainly thinks so. How did he know about the time I lost my dick?”

And his partner threw back his head and laughed, the sound almost startled. Davis grinned at him, terribly pleased with himself. He let out a few giggles of his own, intermixed with Tapp’s joyous wheezing. For the amount of times he spent making stupid jokes, it was rare to hear the other man laugh. 

Davis watched the way he completely changed. Eyes scrunched up like a kid, teeth showing, he looked like an entirely different person. Younger, happier, a stark contrast to the severe young man that had taken to following Davis around these past few months. He fell quiet and found himself staring at the other man as his chuckles died down. That same pressure from before welled up, and a spike of pain in his head made him wince.

Tapp noticed. His laughter died off immediately, and he dropped his hand from where he’d been wiping away a tear.

“You okay?” he asked seriously, and instantly everything was back to normal. Still, the aching in Davis’ head remained. If anything it grew stronger. He pressed his palm of his hand into his eye as if that could possibly help ease the pain.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Tapp held out his hand. “I’m driving.”

This time Davis didn’t argue. He tossed him the keys and slowly made his way around to the passenger side. Tapp gave him a concerned once over once he’d settled down to sulk. Then he started the engine and drove them away.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a jingle of keys at the door before Tapp let himself inside. Davis was scribbling notes on the giant white-board he’d demanded be hung up in the living room.

“Come in,” Davis called absentmindedly.

“I’m already in,” Tapp retorted, closing the door behind him. “That’s the great thing about you giving me a key.”

“I’ll take it back,” he warned.

“No you won’t.” 

Tapp looked around the small apartment. It was a disaster zone, but although it looked like a tornado had gone sweeping through it, the chaos all had its place. Every flat surface was covered in sticky notes. Voice recorders and hand-scribbled reminders filled the space. The white-board was flooded with information ranging from case facts to grocery lists, and a mass of photos were pinned to one wall with lines of string connecting them.

While Davis frowned at his notes, Tapp zeroed in on the blanket on the couch.

“Don’t you have a bed?” he asked in exasperation.

“Couch was closer.”

“The offer’s still open if you want to move in with me.”

Davis grinned at him. “Couch is closer.”

Tapp rolled his eyes and finally came forward. There were two drinks in his hand, and he set one of them down on the table by Davis’ elbow. The detective furrowed his brow at the can of Diet Coke, but didn’t reach for it.

“So what’s the deal?” Tapp asked finally, turning to the white-board as well. He sipped a beer as he tried to make sense of the information.

“Just trying to put it all together,” said Davis. “What I really want to know is who tipped them off. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing yesterday.”

“Maybe they just spotted the car,” Tapp shrugged.

Davis shook his head. “No, somebody warned them. Jones checked his phone and immediately they booked it.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe they weren’t running from us? They might have been called away to something, and only noticed when we gave chase.”

Davis hummed doubtfully. “Maybe.”

Tapp took another swig before speaking. “Anyway, I managed to identify the man they were meeting. He’s been suspected of trading in firearms. Maybe the Fakes are running low on stock.”

“Or they’re gearing up. Probably a heist happening soon, if I had to guess. And you’ll have to tell me who your connections are sometime.”

“Only if you tell me who tipped you off about the meeting.”

Davis let it go. In all honesty, he didn’t remember. He went to great lengths to record anything that could be important, but still some things slipped through the cracks. Davis had woken up one morning and felt with dead certainty that there was a deal scheduled for that date. And a good detective knew to follow those instincts.

He fidgeted with his pen, frowning a little. Tapp glanced down at the movement.

“Have you been taking your meds?” he asked casually.

“I hardly have any pains anymore.”

“They’re not just for pain relief, Roger. If you want to get better-”

“Yes, David, I know. I have been taking them. And they do help.”

“But you’re not sleeping?” Tapp asked sympathetically. When Davis shot him a puzzled look Tapp nodded towards the couch and the blanket.

He sagged slightly. A self-deprecating laugh bubbled up and he lowered his pen, running his hand through slightly shaggy hair. His fingers easily picked out the scar along his temple.

“I think I must be dreaming about it,” he admitted. “I still don’t remember it, getting shot, but when I’m sleeping… I don’t know. My dreams are so vivid, and there’s so much red in them.”

“Like blood?” Tapp asked him, standing perfectly still. Always so grounded, even when Davis felt like he could just drift away.

Davis thought. “Sometimes. But usually it's more like fire.” He shook his head. “I forget them the moment I wake up. That’s all I can tell you.”

His partner reached out a hand and squeezed his shoulder. Actions like that were rare, but they happened, and Davis appreciated them. He knew the shorter man didn’t like being openly affectionate. He seemed much more content to fuss over Davis like some deranged mother hen.

“Normally when people get shot in the head they don’t get a chance to worry about weird dreams,” Tapp said finally, releasing him. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“I do,” Davis assured him. “I’m fine, and since you helped set me up here the cases have been steady. I’m quite content, Tapp, don’t worry about me.”

Tapp didn’t answer, just took another drink of his beer.

“You can call me, if you have any more weird dreams.”

“I don’t need to,” Davis brushed off. Then he leaned forward and tapped a picture on the wall. It was a hastily snapped photo of the Fake AH crew mid-heist. The shot was slightly blurry, most of their faces hidden from detail. 

“This one kind of looks like you,” he said, pointing to a man dressed in clashing colours with fluoro hair. “You know him?”

“Not all short people know each other, Davis,” Tapp deadpanned. 

That drew a laugh out of him. “Rimmy Tim, the elusive daredevil. No idea how he gets around unseen with hair like that.”

Tapp snorted as if in agreement. Davis pondered for a minute, studying the picture.

“He fell off the map too,” he noted, “Not long after the Vagabond did.”

“What are you talking about, he still shows up in headlines occasionally.”

“But not nearly as often. What happened to take him off the radar? Maybe the Vagabond is alive. In medical care somewhere and Rimmy is off keeping an eye on his recovery. He’s the newbie right? He could have drawn the short straw.”

“Or maybe he’s just mourning him,” Tapp muttered.

Davis blinked at him in surprise. His partner drained the rest of his beer, staring fixated at the board.

“I’m out,” he said suddenly, shaking the empty bottle. “You got anymore of these?”

“There should be some left in the fridge from last time you were here,” Davis told him. Immediately Tapp headed off to the kitchen. Davis listened to him crash around in there for a few minutes while he pondered the man’s sudden moroseness.

“I think I’m going to head out,” Davis called eventually, hearing Tapp pause as he opened another beer.

“Need me to come with?”

He shook his head, standing and reaching for his coat.

“No, stay here and relax. See if you can make sense of this nonsense and text me anything else you think of. I have some errands to run.”

“Okay…wait!” Davis stopped and looked back. Tapp scooped the can off the table and held it out to him. “Take your drink with you, it’ll go warm otherwise.”

Davis looked between the can and Tapp, bemused.

“I actually don’t like Diet Coke all that much,” he said eventually. “You can have it.”

Tapp lowered his arm, visibly doing a double take. “Wait, really?”

Davis shrugged. “It makes me feel sick, even to smell it. I think I might be allergic.”

His partner seemed to withdraw in on himself, shoulders slumping. A shadow passed over his face. The can dangled by his side now, fingertips tapping against it listlessly.

“Right,” he said. “Sorry. I’ll remember for next time.”

“It’s okay,” Davis assured him. “Between the two of us you’re still the one with the functioning memory.”

“Well, I’ve never taken a bullet to the skull.”

“We can fix that, if you’re so jealous,” he offered, and finally got a smile out of his partner.

“I’ll let you know if it comes to that,” Tapp said quietly. “Errands?”

“Right, yes. Sit and take a load off, I’ll probably need your help later. Have fun Tapp.”

He headed for the door and stepped out. As it closed behind him he heard one final mutter from his partner.

“See ya buddy.”

 

 

Heavy beats vibrated in his chest as Detective Roger Davis stepped into the club. The flashing lights were head-splitting. He squinted against them as he weaved through the crowd, searching for any faces that stuck out. His trench coat had been abandoned in his car in an attempt to blend in better amongst the shifting bodies on the dance floor. But he’d kept his gun, hidden under his shirt.

There were a few places that were known for criminal activity. That didn’t mean the police had any intentions of cracking down on them, and for good reason too. By the time they broke down the door every person in the club would have vanished. They were like rats that way. They scurried at the first sense of danger, impossible to catch.

Unless you found their nest. Which was what Davis had been after since he first started pulling in cases. Marriage affairs and lost twins were fun to investigate occasionally, but something bigger called to him. He felt a pull. For weeks he worked with the news playing in the background, and any mention of the Fakes made him lose his focus.

There was something there, and he couldn’t let it go. Something that had shaken the crew and left them vulnerable. Which meant that now was the time to investigate. Now, they would be making mistakes.

Detective work wasn’t always glamorous. Not every day involved a car chase, and sometimes it meant following a gut instinct, shaking a tree to see what came loose from the branches. So Davis stalked through the club, keeping his eyes open. 

He didn’t know exactly what it was he was looking for. But he was feeling lucky tonight.

Somebody bumped up against his back. By the time Davis turned around there was a hand around his bicep.

“Sorry- oh shit, dude! I haven’t seen you in ages, how are you feeling?”

Davis was taken aback by the familiar greeting. The man holding him was tall and well-groomed, with square glasses on his face. He beamed at Davis. It immediately clicked that he had mistaken the detective for someone else in the dim club lights.

Maybe this was an opportunity? Time to get to work.

“Feeling great, actually,” he answered the man, matching his closeness to be heard over the music. “Just a little lost at the moment.”

“Oh yeah, your guys are upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you the way. The boss man’s gonna be happy to see you, he hasn’t stopped moping since you left. Gus is just about ready to kill him.”

Before Davis could protest, he found himself swept along by the hand on his shoulder. The stranger led him easily through the crowd until they reached a door. It opened into a flight of stairs. They headed up them, the man chatting to him the entire time.

“But seriously, where have you been?” he asked while Davis was surreptitiously checking his exits.

“Working,” he said shortly. 

“Busy as always huh, I hear that. Apparently nothing keeps a man like you down. Consider me impressed. Anyway, they should be in here.”

They reached the top of the stairs and the man swung the door open, revealing a club room. It was lavish, with a mini bar off to the side and a pool table in the centre. The lights were brighter in here than downstairs. 

And when the door opened, almost every single member of the Fakes lifted their heads.

“You left something downstairs,” the man announced to them, voice a tease.

Davis stood frozen to the spot. He wasn’t the only one. Although it was only Free and Jones he’d been worried about recognising him, the detective realised with a start that all of their eyes were pinned on him. 

Pattillo held a glass aloft, caught mid-drink. Jones was half way through hitting a ball with his cue, gaping at Davis. Free clutched his own cue just beside him. And the Kingpin himself, the infamous Geoff Ramsey, had turned greyfaced. All of them looked like they’d seen a ghost.

Davis stared back at them and didn’t dare move a muscle.

The man beside him cleared his throat.

“Did I miss something?” he asked, squinting at all of them.

A tense silence. Then Ramsey spoke, his voice hoarse.

“Get out of here Burnie.”

Burnie looked at him for a long moment before shrugging and turning for the door. He closed it on his way out, but not before landing a comforting pat on Davis’ shoulder. The detective jolted out of his stupor. All at once his brain came back online he scrambled for a way out of the situation.

This wasn’t a game anymore. They recognised him, clearly. This was dangerous, and the only exit to the room was closed. The four of them looked just as startled. For a long minute after Burnie left, nobody moved an inch. Eyelids twitched in an effort not to blink. Davis could hardly breathe.

Then Free’s hand moved towards his pocket.

Heart leaping, Davis reacted instinctively and grabbed the nearest object. It happened to be an expensive looking statue and he flung it at the group, the ceramic shattering on the pool table. It broke the spell over the room. They all started shouting, and Pattillo drew her gun. 

Davis pulled his as well, but she only shot the light out, raining glass down on him. The detective dove sideways, firing blindly in the direction of Free, certain that he had a firearm of his own that he’d been reaching for. He heard a shriek before the man ducked under the pool table.

“Michael!”

Jones barrelled into Davis, catching him around the waist like a footballer. The breath slammed out of the detective and he was carried backwards into the wall. His gun went flying out of his grasp. He braced himself and wrestled with the shorter man. Jones fought hard, landing blows in his gut that sucked the air out of him. 

The man got off a lucky shot that made Davis’ head snap backwards. He reeled. Jones shouldered him roughly and sent him stumbling. Davis tripped right past Ramsey, who was holding a door open to a closet. He hit the wall inside hard enough to send a painful ringing through his head. The detective slumped down. Before he was able to get his bearings the door was slammed shut on him.

He heard the lock click. After a minute of dizziness, Davis heaved himself upright and slammed against the door. It rattled but didn’t open. His head was pounding but he backed up as much as he could and tried again. Then again. Outside he could hear the sounds of a scramble. They were getting away. 

It was useless. There wasn’t enough space in the tiny closet to get a good run up. Davis kicked at the door until it buckled, then he swayed. His head hurt like a motherfucker. He put a hand to the tender spot where his skull had hit the wall, barely noticing the blood running from his nose. 

The detective sat down heavily. Thoughts spinning too much to think straight, Davis took a moment to put his head down and breathe, trying desperately not to throw up. Finally, finally, the pain began to ease off. It felt like forever before he could open his eyes in the dark space without wanting to cry. By then, he heard nothing outside.

Davis sighed. His fingers dipped into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Detective Tapp answered on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“I’m in a closet,” Davis said without a greeting, swiping under his nose and grimacing at the wetness. “Upstairs in The Coop on east street. Come let me out?”

“I’ll be right there,” Tapp replied and immediately hung up on him. Davis lowered his phone and leaned his wrists on his knees. His head rested back against the wall as he waited.

To his surprise, not ten minutes later he heard a shifting outside the closet. Then the door swung open, light spilling into the space. Tapp stood staring at him.

“How did you get here so quick?” Davis asked, wincing at the spike of pain that went through his head from the sudden brightness.

“I was nearby,” said Tapp. He stepped inside and hauled Davis to his feet, immediately guiding him over to one of the only upright bar stools. The room was in disarray after the confrontation. There was no sign of the Fakes, but a very Roger Davis sized dent in the wall. 

Tapp wrapped some ice in a towel and handed it to his partner. Davis held it against the back of his head gratefully. 

“That was meant to be for your face,” Tapp said in concern. “You hit your head?”

“Not hard,” he brushed off. His partner’s face darkened, and he grabbed a second towel for the blood still running from his nose.

Tapp righted a bar stool and sat in front of him, pressing one hand to his shoulder and the towel to his face.

“Not gonna ask me what happened?” Davis asked in amusement.

Tapp shot him a look. “I was going to wait until you didn’t look like you were about to pass out, but I assume you did something completely fucking stupid and got your ass beat as a result.”

“That’s a pretty good guess, actually.” He took the towel and held it himself. Tapp leaned back to give him some space. “Your theory is busted by the way. They definitely knew who I was.”

“Who?” Tapp asked carefully.

“The Fakes. They were in here, and all of them recognised me in less than a second.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Tapp pushed himself up and rounded the bar, immediately going to work making himself a drink.

“Relax, they didn’t even shoot at me.”

“There are bullet holes in the wall.”

“That was mostly me.”

“Jesus, Davis!” He shook his head angrily and downed a shot, immediately pouring another.

“You should slow down,” Davis said. “You might be driving us home.”

“ _You_ should shut up,” said Tapp, pointing his glass at him threateningly. But he only took a sip this time. The man reached for a second glass and Davis heard the hiss of a can being opened. They fell into silence. Both of them trying to process all that had happened.

It was strange, actually, that they hadn’t shot at him. Davis had thought he was a dead man the moment he walked in. But although his head was pounding and his nose stung, he wouldn’t have a lot to carry away from this fight besides bruises. 

“Maybe they were on a murder break,” he said aloud.

Something shattered behind the bar. Tapp cursed up a storm, dancing in place to avoid the glass on the floor where he had dropped his drink.

“Okay back there?” Davis asked, distracted from his train of thought.

“Yeah, just slipped,” answered Tapp. “Here, yours is safe.”

He slid the second glass across the bar and bent down to begin collecting the shattered pieces. Davis watched him for a minute. Then he reached for the drink without looking. It made it all the way to his lips before the bubbles tickled his nose and he winced, pulling it away.

“Tapp?” The man looked up at him. “Are you really that mad at me?”

His head tilted in confusion. Then Tapp’s eyes lowered to the glass, and tightened. He dropped his handful of glass and straightened abruptly.

“No- sorry, I forgot.”

“It’s okay!” Davis said hurriedly, thrown off by the devastated look that had crossed his face for half a second. He felt guilty now for pointing out his mistake when the man was so clearly frazzled. In apology he lifted the drink again, swallowing hard against the roiling of his stomach. Tapp quickly waved him down.

“No, you don’t have to drink it. I’ll get you something else.”

“It’s really fine,” Davis told him, but let the man pry the glass out of his hand anyway. 

“Nah, I’m supposed to be the one functioning brain cell between us. Can’t be forgetting things like that.” Tapp hesitated, then grabbed a bottle of water and handed it over. “I guess you just look like a Diet Coke man.”

Davis took the bottle with a murmured thanks. Gingerly he set the bloodied rag down on the bench and took a sip of water. He watched Tapp as he did so. The man avoided his gaze, going back to his task of cleaning up the broken glass. Finally he scooped it all into a nearby trash can and put his hands on his hips, sighing. Davis studied the slumped angle of his shoulders.

He huffed. “And you’re always on my case about not sleeping.”

Tapp sagged slightly, then shot a wry smile towards him.

“I’m not the one with a head injury.”

“Yeah yeah. Take care of that brain, I need to use it too,” Davis warned, jabbing the bottle towards his partner. The corner of his mouth twitched in response. 

“Come on,” he said, some of the tension fading from his eyes as he rounded the bar. “Let’s get you home, and then we’ll _both_ rest.”

That sounded like a fantastic idea. Davis reluctantly gave up his ice pack and headed for the door. Tapp kept a hand hovering over his back the entire way, as if he would fall. Usually Davis would slap it away, or tease him for fussing, but his head still pounded and he considered it a victory that he could walk straight.

He paused at the door. Tapp waited while he turned to survey the room.

Glass littered the floor. Bullets had ripped through the wall and ceiling, taken out one of the legs of the pool table, and shattered a light. The only chairs left upright were the ones he and Tapp had been sitting on. Such a beautiful room, now in shambles.

And he was still no closer to answers. 

Then he looked towards the pedestal that had held the statue. It had been close to the door and so had survived most of the chaos. Aside from Davis smashing its centre piece. Somebody had bumped it on their way out, it seemed, but it remained upright. And on top of it, right next to where the statue had been, was a small, circular token.

“Come on Davis,” Tapp called from outside the door.

The detective looked around the room one last time. Then he headed out, sticky fingers sweeping up the token on his way. He nodded to his partner and closed the door behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

_Davis stood before a burning building. The flames roared ever higher, tasting the sky with long fiery tongues. But rather than being scared, he laughed at the destruction. His heart was light in his chest._

_He looked to his left and saw Tapp. His features were blurry, and he didn’t look quite the same, but Davis knew it was him, the way you always just knew in dreams. His friend beamed at him, smile wider than he’d ever seen it when he was awake._

_Tapp grinned at him and opened his mouth to say something-_

 

Davis woke up gasping. He bolted upright, shuddering with the need to gulp down oxygen like a drowning man. Clean air filled his lungs instead of the stinging smoke he was expecting. Clutching at his sheets, he fought to get his breathing back under control, skin slick with sweat. His head pounded. 

The door to his bedroom swung open. In the blink of an eye Davis had the gun out from under his pillow and pointed towards it.

“Alright, Davis?” called a tired voice.

Tapp stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was in his undershirt and socks and squinted at Davis before flicking the light on. The sight of the gun made him pause.

“What did you say?” Davis demanded. He was shaking. Tapp slowly raised his arms, palms out.

“I asked if you were alright,” he repeated slowly.

Davis shook his head so hard sweat flew from his hair. He jabbed the gun towards the other man, completely lost in his own thoughts. His partner didn’t flinch, but he did watch him warily. 

“You said something before that!” he insisted. “You asked me a question and I didn’t hear it properly. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything before I came in here,” said Tapp. “Put the gun down.”

Davis stared at him. Then he slumped. All of the fight went out of him in a single breath, gun dropping to the blankets. 

Tapp lowered his hands and took a few steps into the room. The bed dipped slightly as he sat on it.

“You’re alright,” he said. “Tell me your name.”

Davis closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment.

“Davis. Detective Roger Davis.”

“Some detective you are, pointing a gun at me. Can’t even recognise your own partner.”

“Of course I recognise you.” Davis felt his tension unwind. He opened his eyes and looked at the man sitting on his bed. “Why are you here?”

Tapp tilted his head at him. “You were in a fight yesterday. I stayed to make sure you didn’t choke in your sleep.” 

“You slept on the couch?” 

“Yeah. I bet I fit on it a lot better than you do, and it’s still a piece of shit.”

He let out a weak laugh, wiping sweat from his brow. Tapp took the gun and set it on the bedside table. Davis made no move to stop him. 

“What happened?” asked the other man. How he could continue to be sympathetic after just having a gun pointed at him, Davis didn’t know.

He shook his head, chest heaving less now that he had calmed down. “Just a dream. The same dream.”

Vague memories of heat left the bed feeling stuffy, and he threw back the covers to get up. On nights like this he usually felt too wired to go back to sleep. So he’d work instead, and eventually crash on his couch sometime in the early morning. 

Although it seemed that tonight, his couch was occupied.

“Did I say that you could stay?” Davis accused as he got up. He threw on some clothes and led Tapp out of his bedroom. 

“Yes,” Tapp said immediately.

Davis scoffed. “Liar.”

It was much cooler in the kitchen. Davis filled a glass of water and gulped it down.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, Tapp. Thank you, you can go home now.”

“Ha. Like hell.”

He quirked an eyebrow at the man leaning up against his countertop. Tapp crossed his arms and ankles, a clear sign that he wasn’t moving. His chin jutted out for good measure.

“I really am fine, Tapp.”

“Maybe, but it’s also 2am, and you’re way too skinny to kick me out,” he pointed out. 

Davis laughed, a little sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess. Okay fine, you can stay, but if you want to sleep you might want to take my room. I’m gonna be up working for a while. Don’t want to keep you awake.”

Tapp cast a longing look in the direction of the bedroom. Then he sighed and pushed himself away from the counter.

“What are you working on? I’ll help.”

Davis smiled at him. “Collins forwarded me a case about some missing jewellery…”

 

 

This time Davis woke up on the couch with a crick in his neck. He groaned and rubbed at the sore spot. When he opened his eyes a hand came into view, holding a mug.

“I stole some tea,” said Tapp. “But I’m giving half of it back to you so I think that should count for something.”

“Thin ice, Detective, thin ice.” But still, Davis accepted the drink gratefully. 

Rather than join him on the couch, Tapp leaned up against the sun-warmed window sill, sipping at his own tea. They spent a few minutes in silence. Wrapped up in a morning that was trying its hardest to coax them back to sleep.

Davis rubbed at his eyes until he felt more awake.

“Did we solve it?” he asked blearily, glancing at the new writing on the board.

“Pretty sure it takes more than one night of brainstorming to find stolen family jewels,” Tapp said. “You’re gonna have to do some actual investigating.”

“Then I’m afraid the Turney jewels will have to wait. We’ve got much bigger fish to catch.”

Tapp almost spat out his tea. He quickly set down his mug on the windowsill, staring at Davis.

“Are you serious?” he demanded.

“What?”

“You’re still on this? Davis, you could have been killed yesterday. Now you want to keep going. Honestly, what the hell goes through your brain?”

“Mostly nonsense,” Davis said calmly, “And occasionally bullets.”

Tapp shoved himself up and began pacing around the living room. Davis rolled his eyes and finished off his tea.

“Why are you so worked up about this?” he questioned. “This is the job, Tapp. You don’t have to help me if you’re scared.”

“I’m not the one who should be scared, Detective. See if you can fucking deduce that one.”

“I know the risks and so do you.” Great, now Davis was raising his voice as well. He couldn’t help but feed off of Tapp’s agitation. A headache nudged at the edge of his brain. 

“This is different,” insisted Tapp. “Nobody’s paying you to do this. There’s no benefit here. You’re doing this for nothing!”

“It’s not for nothing. They’re criminals, Tapp, and if we can get them brought in, the city of Los Santos will be a lot safer. And if we work out what happened to the Vagabond-”

“The Vagabond is _dead!_ ”

“No he’s not!” snapped Davis, hands clenched tight on his knees.

“How can you be so sure?”

“ _Because I’d know!_ ” he shouted. 

Tapp faltered. He looked taken aback, and Davis realised he’d launched himself to his feet and was now towering over the shorter man. Clenching his teeth, he took several steps back and exhaled hard.

“I’d feel it,” he went on, tone quieter but just as insistent. “He’s still alive and out there somewhere. I can’t explain how. I just know when I’m wrong and I’m not wrong about this.”

Tapp took a hesitant step towards him, reaching out.

“You’re going to get yourself killed over somebody you’ve never even met,” he said in a low voice. “Why does this matter so much to you?”

Davis shook his head, unable to explain it. His eyes dropped to the floor to avoid seeing the way Tapp’s expression fell.

His partner sighed. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again R-”

He cut himself off with a strangled noise. Davis’ head snapped up, eyes narrowing on the man. Tapp swallowed. His expression was a blank slate.

“Roger,” he finished after a moment too long. 

“You weren’t going to say that,” Davis accused. Tapp ignored him, looking around for his belongings and shrugging on his jacket.

“I have to go,” he said, despite the way Davis tracked him. “Stay home today. Work on the jewels case, I’ll check in on you later.”

“What were you going to say?” demanded the detective, storming after him. The door slammed shut in his face. Davis yanked it open and shouted after his partner as he jogged down the stairs. 

“Tapp!”

Nothing. He left without looking back. Grumbling, Davis stepped back inside his apartment and slammed the door a second time for good measure.

 

 

Davis sat in his car, turning a shiny silver token over and over between his fingers. It was almost worn smooth. Either very old, or well-loved. Maybe a memento that one of the Fakes liked to toy with now and then. 

His eyes were on the building across the street. Its neon lights were even brighter than the faulty street lamps, a beacon in the night. 

An arcade. Davis was certain he’d never been here before. Yet he’d driven all this way without directions, and it was only once he was parked outside that he’d fished the token out of his pocket and taken a proper look at it.

The weathered details on the coin matched the logo above the door. Davis folded the token into his palm. 

It was a long shot. But what did he have to lose? 

The detective slipped the token back into his pocket and got out of the car. This time he kept his long coat as he entered the building. If he was already so recognisable, then it hardly mattered trying to blend in. At this point he might have better luck hiding his features behind a tall collar and thick coat. 

The arcade was quiet this late at night, but it still had a few customers. Rowdy kids that were up way past their bedtime. A few adults who were clearly regulars, amassing impressive piles of prize tickets beside whatever machine they were playing on. In here the lights were not quite as obtrusive. Everything held a soft glow, and Davis weaved his way between the games as he searched for…

Something. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he let his feet lead him. Past the kids and their loud shooting games. Past the bored girl working the counter, and the regulars with one goal in mind. Eventually he found himself in the back corner of the arcade. There were fewer machines here and it was darker as a result.

A chiming sound drew his attention. Davis caught sight of curly red hair and moved quickly, ducking behind a machine. After a tense moment in which nobody cried out in alarm, the detective carefully peered around the corner.

There was an old timey pinball machine set up by the wall. Standing at it was a red headed woman in a Hawaiian shirt, working the controls like a pro. The machine let out a few triumphant noises and tickets poured out. She turned slightly as she put in another token, and Davis realised that it was Jack Pattillo, the same woman who had shot at him less than twenty-four hours earlier.

The game started up again and her hands returned to the controls. Pinging and shuttering noises rose up from the machine. 

“What’s up Lil’ J?” she called, and for a moment Davis didn’t know who she was talking to. Then a short but broad-shouldered man moved out from behind a machine. The neon lights bounced oddly off his bald head, and his mouth was twisted unhappily.

Detective Tapp stepped into view, and greeted the criminal like a friend.

“You guys have to cancel the heist,” he said, and Davis reared back in shock.

Pattillo had a similar reaction, looking at him sharply. “What?”

“Davis knows something’s up. He’s too close to the truth. Unless you want police to show up in the middle of the job, you’re going to have to make new plans.”

“What are you even doing if you’re not taking care of shit like this?” She kicked the machine in frustration, and a few more tickets spilled out of it, joining the steadily growing pile on the floor.

Tapp glowered at her. “I can’t do damage control unless I know where he’s getting the information. I’m pretty sure even he doesn’t know. And I’m keeping an eye on him, _Jack_ , which you’re not helping with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A head injury? Are you kidding me? Like a bullet didn’t do enough damage?”

“He was shooting at us, Jeremy,” she defended, never taking her eyes off the game. “What did you expect us to do?”

“I have to spend every day of my life being careful around Davis, and you all can’t handle him for ten minutes!”

“We did the best as we could,” she said. “You know how much he hates being outnumbered-”

Tapp cut her off, “Davis doesn’t know shit about being outnumbered. _Jesus_ , Jack, that’s the fucking point! This is what none of you are getting through your heads! Detective Roger Davis is not our friend, and if you keep treating him like it, somebody’s going to get hurt. You have to follow _my_ rules.”

Pattillo abandoned the game, finally turning her attention to the man beside her.

“Okay,” she said, a guilty look stealing across her face. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just hard. For all of us.”

Tapp took a deep breath and nodded, eyes shut tightly. 

“I hate this too, you know,” he told her. “I hate it so much. Especially Roger _fucking_ Davis.”

Pattillo put her arms around him. Tapp stood stiffly as she patted his back. Swallowing hard, Detective Davis drew back from his hiding place and made a hasty retreat. It wasn’t until he finally made it outside and the cool air hit him that he realised he was breathing too fast.

Davis stumbled to lean against the wall. One hand went to his chest, feeling how his heart raced. His legs were shaky so he let them fold, sliding gracelessly down to the ground. He put his head between his knees and fought to stop hyperventilating. 

His own partner. Davis couldn’t believe it. Just like every time he hit a block in his memory, his brain refused to process the thought. All this time, Tapp had been the one constant in his life. Always there, always helping, whether it was with cases or headaches or even just reminding him to eat. 

Had that really all been fake?

He shuddered, folding even further in on himself. It couldn’t be true. But he’d heard it from the man himself, spoken with such hatred. 

Davis fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and with practiced movements navigated to his voice memos. There were countless audio files on the device, some of them case related, others just reminding him about chores and details that he felt were important. And this was important. He couldn’t forget this.

“Detective Tapp’s real name is Jeremy,” he said after he hit record. “Jeremy is a traitor.”

Davis hesitated. The words itched at him, something wrong about them. After a moment of thought he rewound to speak over the recording.

“Detective Tapp is a traitor.” 

There. That sounded better. He hit the button to play it back, listening to the message over and over until it finally felt real. The words sank into his brain. Eventually he couldn’t stand to listen to them anymore. 

Davis stopped the playback and made a call.

 

 

Tapp stormed towards the exit of the arcade, in a hurry to get back before he was missed. The music of a game machine drew his attention. He glanced sideways. Then he did a double take, lurching to a halt mid-step. 

A few feet away stood a man with his back to him. He wore a familiar trench coat, and didn’t look up from whatever game he was playing. Tapp stared at him. A deep-seated horror welled up in his stomach, and his heart skipped a beat. 

“Davis?” he uttered, hoping desperately that he was wrong.

The machine let out a cheer. A stream of tickets were dumped out onto the floor. The man didn’t move to collect them, didn’t even look down. He just stood there, unmoving, for a minute that stretched on forever.

Slowly, his hands slid into his pockets. Then Detective Roger Davis turned around. And met his gaze.

His eyes were cold. Tapp felt pinned by them, unable to do anything but gape. A spike of fear ripped through him. He waited for the man to yell, or throw things. But he just stared. Like he was waiting for an explanation.

Tapp didn’t seem to have one. And if he did, he wouldn't have been able to say it, not with his partner looking at him like that. 

The two of them faced off, and the distance between them felt like worlds apart. 

He finally opened his mouth, sucking in a breath to speak, but faltered when Davis took a step forward. The detective walked towards him. His gaze held right up until he reached his side, at which point he looked past him, carrying on without a hitch in his step.

Tapp’s mouth snapped shut. He stared at nothing, listening to the man walk away from him. The doors opened.

“He’s all yours,” said Davis. 

Police officers poured into the room, guns drawn and yelling. Tapp ignored them, too busy trying to figure out how everything could have possibly gone so wrong.

He was shoved to his knees as handcuffs snapped shut around his wrists.

 

 

Detective Roger Davis sat in his car. The token was gone, so he held his phone instead. It didn’t play any messages. He just looked out of his window and watched as his partner was escorted out of the arcade and into a police car. No sign of Pattillo. Davis assumed she had slipped out of a back door during the confusion.

The cops pulled away with their prize. Soon after the neon sign of the arcade switched off, leaving the street feeling darker, and gloomy. Davis sank back against his seat.

He played the message again.

“ _Detective Tapp is a traitor._ ”

The reminder looped, drilling into his head like a bullet. Somehow it didn’t stick nearly as well. 

Detective Roger Davis deleted the message. Then he put his head down on the steering wheel and hoped to God he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking into the police station earned Davis several dirty looks. But nobody stopped him, so he continued on through the precinct until he spotted the man he was looking for.

Officer Collins saw him approaching and immediately bolted up from his desk. Files tipped onto the floor. He ignored them, tripping over his chair in his haste to greet the detective.

“Reggie!” he said, shaking his hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“It’s Roger,” Davis reminded him uncomfortably. 

It took some effort to pry his hand free from the man’s enthusiastic grasp. Officer Collins was pleasant enough, and Davis was grateful for all the times that he sent him cases to work on before he found his footing. But talking to the officer gave him a headache, and he never seemed to be able to remember his name.

“Right, Roger David! My bad, Detective. Uh, follow me, don’t worry about the mess.”

Collins led him until they stood outside an interrogation room. He paused with his hand on the door handle.

“Right, so the others have all gone out to lunch, so I can give you ten minutes, maybe more. He hasn’t spoken to anybody, not even to ask for a lawyer. But you two were friends. I bet he’d open up to you.”

“You can’t be friends with somebody you don’t know,” said Davis bluntly.

“Uh. Right.” Collins hesitated. “Good luck anyway.”

He opened the door and Davis stepped inside. 

The man at the table looked up when he entered. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, and his face looked haggard. Davis met his eye, and didn’t recognise his partner in them.

“Davis,” came the greeting after a moment.

“Dooley,” Davis said stiffly in response.

The man smiled, eyes tightening. Jeremy Dooley shifted, his cuffed hands clinking with the movement. 

“I’m guessing you want your key back.”

For a moment Davis didn’t know what to do. He shot a helpless glance towards Officer Collins of all people. The man just nodded comfortingly before closing the door on them both.

Slowly, Detective Roger Davis approached the empty chair and sat down. Jeremy leaned back slightly. He watched as Davis pulled a voice recorder out of his pocket and set it gently on the table. His finger hesitated over the button. Those eyes stayed on him, never wavering.

He hit record.

“State your name,” Davis instructed.

“My name is Jeremy Dooley,” the man across from him said without flinching. 

“What other name do you go by?”

“Detective David Tapp.”

“And?”

Jeremy’s smile widened slightly.

“Rimmy Tim,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice. “But that one’s more of a stage name.”

Davis found it difficult to look at the man. He fished out a notebook and a pen to scribble with, hoping that he could avoid his gaze by taking down notes.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“At my good friend Davis’ house.”

He gritted his teeth. “After that.”

“I went to the arcade.”

“What were you doing there?”

“You know what I was doing,” Jeremy pointed out.

“You’re wrong,” said Davis, finally lifting his head. “I don’t know a single thing about you.”

Jeremy’s eyes shuttered. His expression closed off, smile falling into a tight line.

The detective turned back to his notes. “You were meeting with the woman named Jack Pattillo, a known member of the Fake AH crew. About what?”

“How’s your head?” Jeremy asked suddenly. Davis frowned at him.

“What?”

“How’s your head?” he repeated. 

“None of your business.”

“If you need to take a break, we can. There’s no need to get it all out at once. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“That’d be a nice change of pace, wouldn’t it?” Davis muttered. He surrendered to the ache and rubbed at his temples briefly. “You know the answers to every question I’ve been asking these past few months, don’t you?”

“Maybe not everything,” admitted Jeremy. “You’re curious about a lot of dumb shit.”

“Like the Vagabond?” Davis lowered his hands and narrowed his eyes at his former partner. “You know what happened to him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jeremy nodded anyway, slowly and deliberately. 

“He’s not dead, is he?”

Jeremy laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You could never let it go, huh Davis? It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you, you never believe me.”

“For good reason, it seems.”

Jeremy leaned forward. “I’ll tell you where you can find your answers. But you have to turn off the recorder first.”

“Why?” asked Davis immediately. 

“Because if you want the truth, you’re going to have to fucking remember it,” Jeremy told him, eyes blazing. “Your choice.”

They stared each other down. Finally, Davis reached for his recorder and hit stop. 

Immediately Jeremy leaned across the table, as far as the handcuffs would allow him to extend. Davis stayed perfectly still as the other man spoke close by his ear.

“62 Kingsley Street,” he said clearly. “Fifth floor. The tall building with the flower boxes on the lower windowsills.”

Davis stared at the wall behind him, thoughts racing.

“What’s there?” he asked.

Jeremy sat back. “Go and find out.” His eyes dropped. “Nice drawing by the way.”

Confused, Davis followed his gaze to the book. Instead of writing, at some point he had sketched out a cartoonish rendering of a skull. He looked up to find Jeremy watching him closely.

Davis snapped the notebook shut and shoved his chair back, heading for the door.

“Hey Davis?” 

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. Against his better judgement he glanced back.

Jeremy opened his mouth like he was going to say something more. Then he sighed, eyes dropping to the table in front of him.

“Don’t overdo it,” he said quietly. 

Davis turned the knob and stepped outside.

He ran straight into Officer Gibson.

“What the- who let you in here?” he demanded. His gaze fell to the voice recorder in his hand. “Did he talk to you? We’re going to need to take that if he did.”

Davis shoved the recorder against his chest, hard enough to force him back a step. The officer yelped in surprise and scrambled not to drop it. By the time he regained his balance the detective was already on his way out.

He tumbled into his car and curled over, head in his hands. This headache was killing him. It took several minutes of breathing deeply through his nose and keeping his eyes firmly shut before he was able to think through the pounding.

He popped some painkillers to beat the worst of it back, and then stared into space.

62 Kingsley Street. Usually Davis would scramble to write such an important detail down before he lost it. But right now it was looping in his head like a catchy tune. He realised his heart rate had quickened while he sat there thinking about it.

With nothing left to do, Davis turned his key in the ignition and drove to the address.

 

 

There were indeed flower boxes on the first floor windows. Along with mailboxes outside and a poster for a lost cat. Everything about the place screamed domesticity. If this was a trap, it had certainly put on its best face.

Davis walked into the apartment building, trying to look like he belonged there. There was a front desk and the woman there blinked at him before smiling. He nodded back. The elevator was thankfully empty when he got in. He hit the button for the fifth floor.

Once he stepped out of the elevator he immediately recognised a problem. A long hallway stretched before him, with several numbered doors on either side. Tapp- _Jeremy_ hadn’t told him which apartment to look for.

With a sigh, Davis stepped up to the first door and reached out to knock.

Right before his knuckles met the wood, he stopped. A strange feeling settled over him. Davis opened his hand and touched the door. Then he walked, slowly, letting his fingers trail along the walls and over door handles. His thoughts felt far away. 

Finally his pacing led him to a door labelled fifty-seven. Davis settled his hand around the doorknob and turned. 

It was locked, predictably. He knocked. Nobody answered. He glanced left, then right, before the Detective drew back and kicked the door in. 

It banged open. He caught the door before it bounced back and hit him, stepping quickly into the room before the neighbours came out to investigate the noise. Once the door was safely closed he turned to survey the apartment.

It was immediately apparent that nobody had lived here in awhile. A fine layer of dust had settled over everything. There was a food bowl on the floor but no pet came running. Along the windowsill, however, were a few pot plants that were still a healthy, leafy green, like someone had been by now and then to water them.

Davis wandered through the rooms, looking over everything. He ran his fingers through the dust. Noted the lack of photos. There were a few trinkets and pictures hung up, along with an honest to God sword on the wall. The detective almost reached out to touch the weapon but thought better of it.

He rapped his knuckles against the wall every now and then, testing for a hollow sound. When he found the bedroom, the blankets looked like they hadn’t been touched in months. There was a gloomy air about the place. Like the whole apartment was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Davis spotted double doors. They led to a walk-in closet. He stepped inside, taking note of the clothing hanging there. Biker jackets and printed T-shirts and garish costumes. The back wall was empty except for a simple frame containing a motivational cat poster.

He didn’t bother tapping the wall, just reached out and immediately pulled the picture down. As expected, there was locked safe hidden behind it. Davis ran his fingers over the buttons. One of the numbers was slightly worn, so that was probably first. The rest of the combination he could only guess at.

What was he doing here? he wondered suddenly. Davis almost backed away as the thought struck him. He was following the word of a criminal, not to mention a liar. Even if Jeremy had been telling the truth, there was no way of knowing that this was the room he’d wanted Davis to see. He could have broken into some innocent civilian’s apartment. There was probably nothing in here but passports and some spare cash-

The safe beeped. 

Davis blinked and refocused. The light on the safe had turned green, and he lowered twitchy fingers away from the buttons he had been idly pressing. For a long moment he just stood there. Then he reached out and opened the door.

Inside was an assortment of bizarre objects. Davis stood frozen as he looked at them. A deadly looking knife, several tubes of paint, a rubber duck. There was also a neatly folded jacket, with blue and white detailing. And on top of the pile sat a large black skull mask.

A lump formed in his throat. Davis had to brace himself against the wall for a second.

Jeremy hadn’t been lying. This was the Vagabond’s hideout. But where was the man behind the mask?

There was something knocking behind a door in his mind, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to let it in just yet. Instead of losing his head over this discovery, Davis found a bag and scooped the entire contents of the safe into it, heedless of whether any of it got damaged by the rough care. With the bag on his back, he did one last sweep of the apartment and headed out.

He paused at the door. There was a bowl on a table next to it, full of coins and keychains. Davis picked up the set of keys and spun them around his finger twice. Then he headed off in search of a garage.

 

 

The bike was sleek. Painted red with chrome edging, it seemed a shame to leave it resting in its parking space. It had clearly been abandoned for some time.

Davis didn’t have a thing for motorbikes. He was perfectly happy with the four wheels he had.

But _this_ bike was a thing of beauty. And when Davis hopped on and kickstarted the motor, she purred like a kitten beneath him.

Then he got out onto the road, and she _roared_. Davis blew straight past his sturdy little car. He took bends at breakneck speeds, manoeuvring the bike in and out of traffic with a muscle memory he didn't know he had. The wind tore at his hair and clothes. He hadn’t thought to look for a helmet before his impromptu thievery. One wrong move and he’d be a smear on the pavement.

It still wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d walked away from.

He opened up the throttle and let it drown out everything. His doubts couldn’t catch him when he was going this fast. Davis let out a whoop, leaning into the next turn and feeling like he was shedding years with every mile.

He rode just for the heck of it, until the sun went down and the whipping winds turned icy. Only then did he turn the bike towards home. At a much calmer speed Davis drove back to his apartment, making a quick pit stop to grab a drink along the way. 

He parked it on the sidewalk outside and stepped off. The metal was warm as he ran his hand over it, caressing the bike almost lovingly. A smile stole across his face.

“Damn have I missed you girl,” he said, practically cooing it. 

Davis heard the words as they came out of his mouth, and froze with his fingers still trailing along the handlebars. After a second he let his hand fall. His brow furrowed.

Detective Roger Davis looked over the bike with confusion, before finally forcing himself to turn away and head inside.

Once home he tossed the bag onto his coffee table. He popped the lid off his drink and drained half of it immediately as he paced back and forth. His eyes stayed on the bag like it contained something deadly. 

“Alright,” he muttered, shaking himself. “Alright.”

His feet carried him to the couch and he took a seat. Davis took one last sip and set the bottle down. For a moment he sat, fidgeting with his hands on his thighs. Then he took a breath and reached out to open the bag.

First was the face paint. Black, white and red. Davis opened them up and inspected each one, giving them a whiff. He dipped his finger in the black tub before rubbing it off on his opposite arm. 

Then he pulled out the knife. Unsheathed, it was a thing to fear, the edge jagged and dangerous. The blade alone was longer than his hand. Davis turned it over, admiring the way the light reflected off the metal, before setting it aside.

The duck was exactly that; a rubber duck. No matter how hard he looked at it, it didn’t appear to be anything more. He tightened his fingers around it until it let out a squeak. Davis huffed. It went on the table too, and he graced it with a quick pat.

Next came the jacket, which unfolded as he pulled it out. He held it up before him and studied the design with pursed lips. Well, that was definitely the Vagabond’s jacket. Even if he hadn’t recognised it from news clips, the faint smell of smoke and metal would have given it away. This was a coat that had seen some exciting days.

Davis hesitated. Then he moved to put it on. The jacket fit like a glove against his shoulders, falling to the perfect length at his wrists. It was unwrinkled, like it had been freshly cleaned and pressed since the last time it was worn. He smoothed a hand down the front of it. 

Alright. No more delaying. Davis reached into the bag and pulled out the mask. Carefully, as if it would bite him, he removed it from its covering and held it in his lap. 

The mask was clean as well. It grinned up at him, as if laughing at his nervousness. His fingers smoothed over the skull. It took Davis a second to realise why his hands couldn’t settle. He was looking for a hole. A bullet hole, specifically.

But he didn't find one. The mask was perfectly intact, and felt quite durable. There were a few scrapes here and there, like it had been dropped or tossed or hit, but otherwise it was in good condition.

Davis held his breath and lifted it up to his head.

The moment it brushed his hair the detective startled and dropped it. The mask bounced away. He ignored it, lost in the memories that flooded him. They weren’t new memories, not at all- he saw this dream every night. The living room faded away before his eyes. Fire replaced it, and Davis stared into the flames and laughed.

Someone laughed with him. He turned and saw Jeremy, beaming despite the devastation. As Davis smiled back, the other man opened his mouth and _said-_

He gasped, snapping to his feet. Davis blinked away the vision. Imaginary heat still crawled along his skin, and he quickly tore the jacket off, flinging it across the room. It landed somewhere out of view.

Davis didn’t care, just sprinted to the kitchen. He ran the tap and cupped his hands under it, splashing water on his face. It cooled his flushed skin. But more importantly, it drove away the last lingering effects of the flashback. When he turned off the tap and straightened, his vision was back to normal.

Water dripped from his eyelashes. Davis grabbed a tea towel to dry his face, feeling wrecked.

Enough. This was ridiculous.

Davis needed something to take his mind off, but felt too frazzled to work on a case. He settled on chores. Mundane and uncomplicated. Since he was already at the sink he began washing dishes. The tension and confusion fell away with each clean plate he set aside to dry. On a roll, he decided to take the trash out, then perhaps mop the floor. Anything that would give him a sense of control over his life.

He grabbed the trash bag and scooped up the bottle he’d left on the coffee table, avoiding looking at anything else. Then he headed out to drop all of it in the bins downstairs.

Davis stepped outside and grimaced to see the clouds overhead. Great. A few raindrops dotted the sidewalk, but at least it wasn’t pouring yet. He carried his garbage to the building’s trash bins and tossed the bag in. Another drop landed on his head. He shot another glance up at the sky, hoping it wouldn’t open up on him before he got back inside.

Out of the corner of his eye something moved. Davis stilled, then turned to look. The bike was still parked on the curb, but now somebody was leaning up against it.

“When did you learn to drive one of these?” asked Jeremy, tone far too casual for someone who had been in handcuffs just a few hours earlier.

It took Davis a second to find his voice.

“I didn’t,” he answered eventually.

“And you don’t drink Diet Coke?” 

The man nodded towards his hands. Davis looked down at the bottle he had been about to throw out. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the red and white label until now. It was empty too. He hadn’t paid any attention when he bought it, too caught up in his investigation.

“I’m allergic,” he said numbly, staring at the bottle.

Jeremy tilted his head, hands in his pockets. 

“I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

“You’re not coming inside,” Davis told him immediately. “And I _do_ want my key back.”

“Fine.” Jeremy tossed him a ring of keys and Davis caught them automatically. “But next time you go kicking doors in, try using the key first.”

Bewildered, Davis looked down at the keys in his hand. One of them looked weirdly familiar, and it wasn’t the one he’d given to Tapp. Moving on autopilot, Davis fished out his own keys and inspected them. Sure enough, there was an identical match to the one on Jeremy’s set. He stared at the key. For the life of him Davis couldn’t remember what it opened. It had always been there, he’d just...never thought about it.

“Come on,” said Jeremy, straightening up from the bike. “We’d better not do this out in the open.”

Davis watched him walk away before turning back to the objects in his hands. He stared at them. Then he tossed the bottle and followed.


	5. Chapter 5

Jeremy didn’t lead him far. Davis could still see his apartment when the man turned down an alleyway, out of view of prying eyes. Wary, Davis checked every angle before following him into the narrow street. Nobody jumped out at him. It didn’t seem to be a trap, but still he remained cautious.

By the time he caught up to the man, Jeremy was lounging against the wall with his arms crossed. At first glance, Davis would have said he was nervous, and hiding it badly.

“Go on then,” he said, motioning for him to go first. “I know you have questions.”

Silence fell between them. Somewhere in the distance a couple started arguing. The rain picked up, and with it the smells of the alleyway heightened. Davis stood, taking in the scent of brick dust, listening to the sounds of a city that refused to sleep, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he admitted.

“I’ll go first then,” Jeremy said. “First off, I’m sorry. I know what you must have thought, when you overheard me talking to Jack, but I promise it’s not what it sounded like.”

“Really? Because it sounded a lot like you can’t stand to even be around me. You know, we’re adults. Usually when you hate someone, you don’t spend so much fucking time around them.”

Jeremy waited until he’d finished his tirade before answering.

“Like I said,” he muttered. “Not what it sounded like.”

“So what is it?” 

“I don’t hate you, Davis. You’re right, I wouldn’t put so much effort into looking out for you if I hated you.”

“Then why?” he demanded. “I get shot in the head, you just appear once I’m out of hospital, and suddenly I can’t shake you. That’s not exactly a steady foundation for friendship. Except that you...you act like you knew me before that.”

Jeremy sighed. Davis shook his finger at him.

“You did, didn’t you? But I don’t remember you at all. Why is that, Tapp? Look at me.” 

The other man stayed staring off to the side, mouth twisted unhappily. A sudden fury propelled Davis forward. He grabbed Jeremy and forced him back against the wall.

“ _Look at me!_ ”

Thunder boomed overhead. Jeremy met his eyes, gripping onto his wrists for stability. Davis was breathing hard now.

“I keep having the same dream over and over,” he said, tightening his grip in Jeremy’s shirt. “And I couldn’t remember it until now. Except it’s not a dream, is it? It’s a memory. I’m standing in front of a burning building, and you’re there, and you turned to me and you said-”

“Want to grab dinner after this?” Jeremy supplied.

Davis shook his head rapidly. “No. No that’s not what you said. Say the whole thing.”

The man hesitated. Davis shook him like a ragdoll.

“Say it!”

He spoke slowly. Quietly. “Want to grab dinner after this, Ryan?” 

The name split something open inside Davis. He sagged, hands going slack on Jeremy’s collar. Hunching over, he almost buried his face in the other man’s shoulder, shaking with the revelation.

“My name isn’t Roger Davis,” he said, his own voice sounding distant.

Jeremy shook his head.

“I’m not a detective.”

“No.”

His head felt like a slate wiped clean by shock. He curled his fingers to try and keep them from shaking, ignoring the headache building at his temples as he strained to remember.

“Who _am_ I?” he breathed.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look at Jeremy.

“You’re my friend,” he told him firmly. “That’s all you need to worry about. No matter what name you give yourself, that doesn’t change.”

Davis shoved himself backwards, shaking off his grip. His heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

“You lied to me. This whole time, you lied.”

Jeremy’s face hardened. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Don’t say what? The truth? Is it that hard for you to hear?”

“You wanna talk to me about truth?” he demanded incredulously. One finger jabbed at his own chest. “ _Me?_ ”

Davis snapped his mouth shut. Jeremy laughed, the sound humourless and scathing. 

“I didn’t lie to you, Ryan, I _enabled_ you. I’m the only reason your stupid fucking fantasy didn’t fall apart like a shitty twig house. Where do you think the cases were coming from, huh? You’re not a detective, you never were!”

He advanced on him, driving him back step by step. The rain fell faster now and Davis almost slipped in a puddle as he was herded back against the alley wall. Jeremy thundered onwards with no signs of stopping. 

“Any time you went too long without action, you’d get headaches. You’d grow anxious. _I’m_ the one who saw that you needed to work, who got Trevor to ask around and pass those cases along. All of the people you helped were _our people._ You were so close to the truth, the whole time, and you just couldn’t process it. Your brain wouldn’t let you.

“I never hid the truth from you Ryan. I just fed you whatever information you needed to hear. To get _better._ Do you know what happened during the first few weeks after you woke up?”

He shook his head as he remembered, scattering rain in all directions. 

“You were so scared and angry and confused. No matter how we tried to explain things to you, you refused to listen. The more truthful we were, the more worked up you became. You’d shut down, or scream until you drowned us out. Once Gavin tried to show you a video of yourself shooting rockets off Mount Chilliad...You tried to strangle him. It took three of us to pull you off.”

He wrapped his arms around himself. It took a moment of deep breathing before he was able to continue.

“You were too dangerous to have around. It was only when I took a chance at indulging your fantasy that you calmed down. Eventually we decided that it would be safer to set you up somewhere where you could live out whatever delusions made you feel better. We hoped that without the stress of remembering too quickly, your memory would come back on it’s own.”

Jeremy’s eyes darted up to meet his. He licked his lips almost nervously.

“I volunteered to come with you,” he said, “Because I didn’t want you to be alone. And it was my fault you got shot.”

He stayed silent. Jeremy closed his eyes briefly before forging on.

“Ryan, I’ve spent _months_ of my life thinking about nothing except how to make you feel better. I’ve had to watch my best friend forget my name. Forget his _own_ name. Every now and then I forget too, and then you point out a mistake I’ve made and I have to remember all over again that my friend is _gone,_ and all I have left is a man who looks like him. And worse, thinks I’m nothing but a dirty criminal.”

He looked away, blinking tears out of his eyes. His jaw set fiercely. 

“You can’t be angry at me for lying,” he said thickly. “I tried _so many times_ to show you the truth. You just wouldn’t see it.”

He wiped his sleeve across his face quickly to clear it. Stiffened his upper lip and laughed bitterly.

“You gave me hope a few times. It was pretty fucking cruel of you, whenever you made an inside joke we used to say, or pulled some stunt that was just so like you. I kept waiting for you to figure it out.” His lips twitched. “You even slept with a gun under your pillow, for God’s sake. Why would a detective need to do that?”

“I…”

“You never did before, you know. The man I knew kept a knife by his bedside, not a gun. You always joked that nothing was more dangerous than your people-opener.” He glanced down at the gun in his hand. “I guess you changed your mind.”

Davis looked down as well, startled. He hadn’t even registered pulling the gun out. When he looked up, blinking the rain out of his eyes, Jeremy didn’t look afraid. Just sad.

“You gonna shoot me?” he asked quietly. “You already tried to have me arrested. I’ll just break out again, you know. That’s the thing about the Fakes. There’s always someone ready to help you out of trouble. You’d understand that, if you remembered.”

“I remember-” He cut off, glancing away in frustration at the hopeful look Jeremy shot him. “I remember _something._ I just can’t…”

“What do you remember? Tell me Ryan.”

Davis shook his head, backing up even further.

“No...No that’s not right.”

His hands went to his hair. The gun nudged his temple, and the feeling of cold metal against his scar sent a flood of panic through him. Davis drew back slightly to look at it with horror. A splitting pain racked through his skull. All of a sudden Davis would have given anything to release the pressure building at his temples.

In one quick movement he had the barrel pressed against his head.

“Ryan-!” Jeremy yelped, lurching forward.

“That’s not my name!” shouted Davis, and the other man froze, hands up in surrender. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes locked on the weapon. “I’m sorry, please, just put the gun down.”

“Maybe I can fix it,” Davis said desperately. His thoughts had taken on a hysterical hue, and even though his hand shook he kept the gun pointed at his temple. “I survived it once, right? What are the chances a second bullet kills me? Maybe this’ll finally shake my memories loose.”

For the first time during their argument, Jeremy looked deathly afraid. His face was pale and his voice shook. 

“You know it doesn’t work like that. We _can_ fix this Ryan, but you need-”

“Stop _calling me that!_ ” Davis shut his eyes, finger tightening on the trigger. All at once he felt a hand on his, pulling the gun away. 

He let it happen, opening his eyes to see Jeremy prying his fingers off the firearm. The gun was tossed far away. Then hands clamped down on his shoulders.

The detective bowed his head, tears welling up in his eyes. Jeremy followed him down to the ground. He stayed on his knees, keeping a steadying hand on his back while Davis crumbled in on himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying over the rain. “I’m sorry Davis. I didn’t mean to- I- it was a stupid prank. I didn’t mean for it to go this far-”

“Don’t,” Davis choked out. “Don’t lie to me.”

Jeremy sat back, looking lost. He went conspicuously quiet for a minute, watching him shiver. 

“You don’t have to accept any of this.” 

When Davis lifted his head in confusion, he took a deep breath before explaining.

“I- I’ll leave. You’ll never have to hear from me or your old life ever again. I mean, you won’t have Trevor to help you out with cases, because he had to bust me out and now his cover is blown- but you can stay like this. You can be Detective Roger Davis, if that’s what you want.”

Davis stared at him.

“Won’t you miss me?” he asked, voice small. “Don’t you...miss Ryan?”

The hand on his shoulder tightened. 

“I’d rather you be Davis than dead,” Jeremy told him.

Davis stayed on his knees and shook and shook. All at once Jeremy seemed to snap out of it. He took in the soaking wet detective with dismay.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered. “Let’s get you inside.”

He tugged Davis’ arm across his shoulders and leveraged them both to their feet. The height difference made it so Davis leaned heavily on Jeremy as they made their way back to his apartment. They navigated the stairs with great care. Finally, they entered the apartment, and Jeremy guided him to his room.

Davis stripped off his wet clothes with shivering fingers and crawled under the covers. Jeremy layered even more blankets on top of him, trying his best not to drip water everywhere. Finally he seemed to wind down. With a sigh, he took a seat at the very end of the bed, immediately leaving a wet patch. 

“This was selfish of me,” he said into the quiet of the room. Davis laid there with his teeth chattering, unable to do anything but listen as Jeremy went on. “You were happy here, and I pushed you, all because I wanted things back the way they were.”

He shifted to look at Davis.

“You know, I get it. It was kind of fun being a detective. But this life isn’t for me. I’ll always be a dirty rotten criminal.”

A small smile stole across his face. “You know, you might chase me. We could have a whole cat and mouse dynamic going on. I’d be okay with that. Roger Davis was my friend too, after all.”

Jeremy patted his leg beneath the blankets before rocking up onto his feet. He headed out of the room, pausing once he got to the door.

“I’m going home,” he said. “Really home. Back to the crew. That’s where I belong, even if I miss having you there too. But if you ever need me...well. You know my number.”

His fingers fidgeted on the doorknob for a moment. 

“Goodnight Detective.”

The door shut quietly. Davis stared into the darkness until the weight of his eyelids dragged them closed. For the first time in months, Detective Roger Davis went to sleep, and dreamed of nothing at all.

 

 

When Davis finally opened his eyes, it was past noon. He sat up slowly. No gasping, no night terrors, just a slow drip of yesterday’s memories coming into greater focus. 

“Jeremy?” he called. 

There was no answer. Keeping one of the blankets wrapped around him, Davis creaked his door open and silently padded out into the hallway. He half expected to find the man sleeping on his couch. But the living room was empty, and for a minute he just stood there, at a loss.

He really was gone. 

Davis stared into space for longer than he realised. Then he turned on the television to fill the silence, and headed to the kitchen for some food. 

The news played while he chowed down. He barely heard it, even as he put the dishes away and looked around for something else to do. His eyes landed on the coffee table. The items from yesterday were still on it, sitting innocently amongst the mass of sticky notes. Davis walked over and snatched up the face paint.

He thought he would have trouble. But as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror Davis found that muscle memory took over, painting steady sweeps across his face without needing a reference. He knew what the Vagabond looked like. It wasn’t long before he leaned back, and saw garish warpaint looking back at him. 

His heart skipped a beat. Davis stared into the mirror, and all of a sudden it was too much. The red paint looked overwhelmingly like blood. It stood out horribly bright against his skin, just like Davis knew it must have poured from the bullet wound that had split his skull open, rocked his head back and torn his brain to shreds-

With a sharp inhale he fumbled the tap on and began scrubbing his face with water. He reached blindly for a towel. Davis rubbed until his skin felt raw, and only then did he look back at himself. His face was still faintly pink from the vicious scrubbing, but it was clean. He was whole. 

A deep sigh bowed his shoulders, hands coming to rest on the sink. He took a moment to gather himself.

“Alright,” he said to his reflection. “Let’s try something else.”

Davis set the red paint aside. Then he took the two tubs that were left, tapping them thoughtfully for a minute, before picking up the paintbrush again. This time his movements were slower, less practiced. Somehow that was a comfort. A compromise between what he knew and what he’d forgotten. He felt steadier on this middle ground, and when finally he was happy with his design, Davis looked at himself and felt no fear.

A black and white skull met him in the mirror. It had curling details and dark eyes, as well as teeth that pulled up from his lips when he parted them. Davis turned his head this way and that, studying his face from all angles. He had to admit, something felt right about it. The paint felt strange on his skin but at the same time, weirdly familiar.

Of course it did. It was his paint. The thought settled over him like a favourite coat.

Speaking of which…

Davis retraced his steps to the living room. He found the black and blue jacket and dusted it off. Once again it settled around him like it belonged there. Like an extra layer of skin, or maybe armour, keeping him safe. He ran his hands along the sleeves reverently.

“...known as the Fake AH Crew have now been pinned down outside of Maze bank,” said the newscaster, snapping his attention to the TV. “An officer on the scene stated that new information presented by a third party allowed them to pinpoint the Fakes’ next target ahead of time. Civilians are advised to steer clear of the area.”

The scene flipped to a shot of the street, police cars surrounding the entrance to a massive building. Just outside of it, a group of people had taken cover behind cars, occasionally ducking their heads out to fire bullets at the officers advancing on them. The police were kept at bay for now, but the Fakes would run out of ammunition eventually. They had nowhere to go.

The anchorwoman continued talking over the shot, “New reports say that the tip off came from a private investigator in collaboration with the police. As we speak officers are blocking off roads in an attempt to minimize casualties and calling in reinforcements. Whatever goes down in these next few hours, one thing is for sure; it’s not going to be pretty.”

Davis stared at the screen in shock. His head reeled, throwing up images of him shoving the voice recorder at Officer Gibson the day before. At the time he hadn’t thought twice about it. God, what had been on that tape? He’d been investigating the Fakes for _months._

Movement drew his eye, as a white cowboy hat of all things appeared out from behind a car. The man fired a few shots. Then a lucky bullet caught his hat, flipping it off his head to reveal a lack of hair, and a familiar face. 

Davis lurched forward, watching Jeremy duck back behind cover. His eyes darted around the screen. The newscaster’s voice turned to white noise as he fixated on the police with their guns up, the crew huddling together for safety.

He leaned towards the scene without realising it, and his foot knocked against something. Davis looked down. The mask was still on the floor where he’d thrown it yesterday, black teeth grinning up at him. Mouth dry, he slowly bent down and picked it up, turning it over. 

He took one last look at the television. 

Roger Davis put on the mask, and the Vagabond walked out.


	6. Chapter 6

The Vagabond didn’t have a gun. But he did have a kick-ass knife, so the first thing he did when he arrived on the scene was slash any tyres he came across. An officer was still yelling over a megaphone, which told him he wasn’t too late. Vagabond ducked between vehicles in an attempt not to be seen. At least, not before he was ready.

First thing's first- he needed a ride. Something more durable that his bike, that could seat more than just the one. His eyes landed on a white police van on the edge of the action. He made his way towards it, staying low.

There was an officer in the driver’s seat, talking on a radio. Vagabond waited until he finished his conversation and then knocked on the back of the car. As predicted, the officer opened the door to look towards the noise. The moment he did so Vagabond grabbed him and dragged him out of the car. Before the man even had a chance to yell Vagabond had knocked him out cold. 

He dragged the man out of sight. As he straightened up he heard a squeak. Vagabond frowned beneath his mask and reached into his pocket, pulling out the rubber duck. He squeezed it gently, listening to the quiet wheeze it let out. Then he tightened his grip and pulled the head off the toy.

Hidden inside the plastic was a little metal ring that looked alarmingly like the pin of a grenade.

Vagabond shook his head, muttering a curse before heading back to the door of the van. He straightened cautiously to check his surroundings. Nobody was looking his way. Directly ahead of him he could see the Fakes, still pinned down and looking desperate.

He pulled the pin out of the duck’s neck and tossed it, immediately climbing into the police van. The little yellow toy bounced and rolled. It came to a stop just underneath a parked police cruiser.

A booming explosion flipped the car, sending it sailing up into the air. Fire spat out in all directions. While officers yelped and scattered, Vagabond put his hands on the steering wheel and stomped on the gas.

He rocketed straight through the fire, leaning on the horn. Passed police officers as they fled the chaos. Nobody was firing now, too busy scrambling in all the confusion, and within seconds he was screeching to a halt just outside of Maze Bank. Vagabond reached over to pop the passenger side door open. 

“Get in,” he ordered.

The Fakes stared at him from their place of hiding. Jeremy was the only one to move, immediately bolting to the passenger side and sliding in.

“Are you guys coming?” he prompted.

The others all snapped to attention. They scrambled to climb into the back of the van, and Vagabond didn’t wait for them to be seated. He floored it, knocking a smaller car clear out of his path and forcing a few officers to dive for safety.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Jeremy called out once they were clear.

“Shut up and put your seatbelt on.”

By the time the officers regained their bearings, and figured out which of their cars were still in driving condition, they had a hell of a head start. Vagabond could hear sirens. In the rear view mirror he spotted flashing lights, distant but in hot pursuit. He wrenched the wheel and the lights disappeared around a bend in the road.

“He’s gonna kill us!” someone screamed from the back of the van.

“Shut up Jack!”

“Ryan be careful-!”

Vagabond slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. The van slid gracelessly to a stop, everyone lurching forward with the momentum.

“Get out,” he said bluntly.

He could imagine the startled looks being shared behind him, but Vagabond only had eyes for the road ahead. It led onto a pier, and blue water fanned out beyond it.

Nobody had moved, so he turned back at them, glare obvious even from beneath his mask.

“Get out and hide,” he instructed. 

This time the Fakes leapt to action, banging open the backdoors and jumping out onto the road. Vagabond waited to see that they had taken cover beneath an overpass before turning to Jeremy. The man had taken off his seatbelt but remained where he was.

“Watch your head,” Jeremy warned him.

Vagabond huffed in disbelief, and reached for the wheel as the sound of sirens grew closer.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a one track mind?” he asked.

“At least mine works.”

“Thin ice, Dooley,” he said, flexing his hands and waiting for the perfect moment. “Thin ice.”

The sirens became ear-splittingly loud, and a hint of flashing lights appeared around the corner. Jeremy braced himself as the van lurched forward, gaining speed quickly. Right as they went under the overpass he clicked his door open, hearing Jeremy do the same. 

Both of them dove out. Vagabond tucked and rolled, being careful to shield his head when he hit the ground. His jacket protected him from the worst of the damage. Still, he felt several aches and stings from the impact that would no doubt give him trouble later. 

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, though. Vagabond rolled to all fours and immediately felt a hand on his arm. Jeremy yanked him up and they moved in sync, pressing their backs against the wall right as the sirens drew closer. 

A police car flew by, then a second. Neither stopped to investigate their hiding place. When it looked relatively clear, Vagabond poked his head out. The van had gone rocketing off the pier and into the bay. As it slowly sank in the water, police officers were getting out of their cars, running to investigate the crash for survivors.

“Come on,” Jeremy said, swatting him. “That won’t keep them occupied for long.”

Vagabond tore his eyes away and followed Jeremy. They ducked through back alleys and hid from civilians, until finally a low rumble reached their ears. A shout followed soon after.

Jeremy lit up. Vagabond followed his eyes and saw the rest of the Fake AH crew waving them down. They stood next to a set of train tracks, and the train itself was steadily approaching. It slowed as it rounded the bend. Vagabond jogged to keep up with Jeremy, watching with wide eyes as one by one the Fakes ran and leapt up onto the train.

Jones was first, then Free. Pattillo and Ramsey moved as one, helping each other get settled.

“Come on, come on!” Jeremy urged him when he started to falter. A hand gripped his jacket, pulling him to run alongside the train.

Vagabond kept up, but still didn’t jump until Jeremy let go and shoved him. Then he leapt, heart in his throat. His fingers found a grip and he hung there for a moment against the side, ground racing by beneath his kicking feet. 

Hands reached for him. Multiple pairs of hands, grabbing his arms and his wrists and the back of his jacket. They held him steady, hauled him up, and helped him keep his balance as he took a seat on the edge of the train carriage. A second later Jeremy hopped up beside him, making the feat look effortless.

Vagabond glanced back at the Fakes. They all returned with reassuring smiles, eyes awkward and perhaps just a little hopeful. He looked away from them, disturbed by how easily they had reached to help him.

His eyes found Jeremy instead. The man sat next to him, grinning so wide that for a second Vagabond expected to see a burning building in the corner of his vision. He waited for that familiar pain to strike at his temples.

But it didn’t. Jeremy just threw his head back and laughed, letting out a whoop. The others echoed him. Cheers and laughter rose up from the carriage. Vagabond kicked his legs on the edge of the train, and let it carry him home.

 

 

The Fakes were buzzing as they entered the penthouse. They chattered to each other, filled with energy as they melted seamlessly into a space that was so familiar to them. Pattillo flopped down onto the couch, while Ramsey headed straight for the kitchen.

The Vagabond was the last to enter. He did so slowly, feeling hesitant. The way they moved around each other was so clearly practiced. Jones jostled Free and elbowed Jeremy in the same breath, then reached up to catch the bottle that was tossed to him from the kitchen. And all the while, they never stopped talking. 

Compared to that, Vagabond felt out of place. During the chase and the ride home he hadn’t had any time to process things. Now, he stood at the edge of the room, shifting his feet uncomfortably. 

A Diet Coke can appeared in his view. He looked up, and saw Ramsey holding it out to him, smiling warmly.

“Ah,” Jeremy called out, spotting the way he froze up at the gesture. “He’s not a fan of-”

“No, it’s okay,” Vagabond assured quickly. He accepted the can, awkwardly flexing his fingers against it.

“Thanks Ramsey,” he said, and immediately the room fell silent.

Their buzzing and bickering stopped. All of them blinked except for Jeremy, faces falling further the longer they looked at him. Ramsey was the closest, and he took a step back from Vagabond. Unsure.

Jeremy cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You can call us by our first names, if you’d like. Do you know them?”

Vagabond took a deep breath. “Jeremy.” 

His friend nodded, eyes softening.

He looked around the room. “Jack. Michael and Gavin.” They perked up when called. He kept turning, facing the Fake who had handed him the drink.

“Geoff,” he acknowledged, and the man’s eyes crinkled as a smile spread slowly across his face.

He reached out and put a hand on Vagabond’s shoulder, testing. When he didn’t pull away, Geoff stepped forward, tugging him into a hug. Vagabond leaned into it. Tattooed arms wrapped around him, and he shuddered at how familiar it felt. Like coming home after a cold night.

“What took you so long?” said Geoff by his ear.

Vagabond sagged, reaching up to return the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he told them, voice cracking. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“It’s okay,” Geoff assured him. “We never forgot.”

He leaned back but kept a hand on his shoulder. His grin was matched by everyone else in the room as they looked at him.

“It’s good to have you back Ryan.”

Vagabond paused. He shot a helpless look at Jeremy. The man came forward immediately, waving Geoff away and putting his own hand on his back in reassurance.

“Davis?” he asked carefully. 

The Vagabond shook his head. Jeremy looked baffled, and behind him the rest of the Fakes shared confused glances. He hesitated. Then he reached up and pulled the mask from his face. The room was filled with expressions of shock and delight as his new face paint was revealed. He smiled sheepishly at them.

“I think, for now,” he said, “Vagabond works just fine.”

 

 

_The Vagabond finished pouring out the last of the fuel, stepping back once the job was done. He heard footsteps and turned. Rimmy Tim approached, looking excited._

_“Coast clear?” Vagabond checked. The other man nodded._

_“Light her up.”_

_He took a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on. Then he threw it onto the ground and watched the world come alight. The pair of them stood there and revelled as the flames roared higher._

_They were standing far enough back to avoid the worst of the smoke, but the air was still warm enough to be stifling inside his mask. He reached up and took it off. When he turned his head, Rimmy was beaming at him. He grinned back, thrilled by the destruction they had caused._

_“Want to grab dinner after this Ryan?”_

_“Absolutely,” replied Vagabond. “I’m starving.”_

_Rimmy opened his mouth to continue, but a shout cut him off. Vagabond watched his expression fall into one of horror. Turning, he saw a stranger stepping out from behind the burning building, lifting a gun in their direction._

_He moved instinctively to shield his friend right as he heard the gun fire._

 

“I didn’t feel it,” said Ryan. “When I got shot, I didn’t feel any pain.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked the woman in the chair. Ryan stared up at the ceiling as he answered.

“When I dream about it, I remember it hurting, and I always had terrible headaches afterwards. But in reality, I didn’t feel a thing.”

His therapist set down her notebook and leaned forward, hand on her chin.

“You were shot,” she reminded him. “That’s something only a lucky few survive. And even though you recovered remarkably quickly, you still suffered a massive trauma. It’s not at all surprising that you felt some lingering pains afterwards. In all seriousness, a few headaches and memory issues are pretty light side effects considering what you went through.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know I’m lucky.”

She tilted her blonde head at him. “You know, we had a theory that Roger Davis was a way for you to cope with what happened. It wasn’t just brain damage. You were perfectly happy to acknowledge that you’d been shot, but being presented with any of the circumstances that led to the incident forced you to confront what happened in a way that was extremely personal.”

Ryan listened, still laying on his back on the couch. She waited for him to nod before continuing. 

“You weren’t ready to face it,” she said, tone gentle. “Any mention of your past life, or your crew, reminded you of why you were shot in the first place. It took you back to a time and place where you were hurt. That’s why you got headaches whenever you heard the truth. You expected there to be pain, and so there was. 

“Detective Roger Davis, on the other hand, was a way that you could distance yourself from that. He accepted your injury, but held no attachment to the event that caused it. He was safe.”

He admitted, “I still have trouble sometimes, differentiating between the two.”

“Of course you do. Because they’re both _you_. It’s not that one is real and the other is fake. You spent a very long time as Roger Davis, and that makes him a significant part of your life and personality. You don’t have to ignore that side of you, now that you remember Ryan Haywood.”

Ryan sat up and looked at her properly.

“Thank you Ashley,” he said, entirely earnest. “I think I’m done for the day, but you have helped me immensely.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she told him, rising to escort him to the door. 

“Say hello to Burnie for me.”

“Who should I say it’s from?” 

He shrugged. “Tell him it’s from Ryan. That’s the name he knows.”

Ashley patted his shoulder. “I will. See you next week, Detective.”

Jeremy was waiting for him in the foyer. He always drove Ryan to and from his therapy appointments. No matter how much he protested, the man insisted he felt better knowing Ryan got home safely after a particularly gruelling session. Jeremy rose when he saw him.

“All good?” he checked.

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. It went well today.”

“Great. Do you want to go straight home, or are we stopping somewhere?”

Ryan thought for a moment before a smile spread across his face. 

“Let’s go out,” he decided. “You did promise me dinner, oh, about a year ago now.”

“Of course that’s what you remember,” snorted Jeremy. “And I’ve had dinner with you plenty of times since then.”

“Ah, but that was when I was Roger Davis! That hardly counts.”

His expression softened. “Then how about I buy dinner for Ryan Haywood instead?”

He tilted his head and pulled a face. Jeremy’s eyebrows rose.

“For Vagabond?” he tried, and got a non-committal hand wiggle in return. Jeremy threw his arms up in exasperation. “Well I want to know who it is I’m buying for!”

Ryan laughed. “Why don’t I pay?” 

He clapped Jeremy on the shoulder and the man elbowed him back. They headed for the exit. For now they didn’t have to decide if they were detectives, or criminals, or both. 

The doors closed behind them, and two friends went to dinner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was a wild ride. Time to return to a normal sleep schedule, thanks for playing everybody!


End file.
